


Fuck Motel

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Butt Plugs, Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Sex Toys, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-17
Updated: 2007-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been wearing something for Sam... all day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck Motel

The room smells like the bar next door - cigarette smoke and beer and like a humid sewer - and the bed's got a thin iron headboard that will clank against the wall and nick the dirty paint on the wall, judging by the dings already there.

There's just the one bed; Dean stops and stares.

The door's not even all the way closed as Sam says it: "Get on it."

"That thing?" Dean, with his bag slung over one shoulder, turns and gives him this incredulous look over one shoulder, eyebrow furrowed. The door shuts with a heavy metallic clank. "Dude, it smells like --"

"Someone just got fucked on it," breathed Sam lowly. "An' you're next. Get on it."

The way Dean usually follows Sam's orders is roundabout at best, and now's just like that - he lingers there with his brow cocked like Sam's mentally addled and there's no way he's getting on that come-stain of a bed... except, then, he decisively moves, like he thought of the whole idea himself. The bag drops on the ratty carpet with a dull thump and the mattress creaks audibly as he sits, heavy, like he's just daring the mattress to break.

Like he doesn't have a butt plug sitting in his ass, keeping him spread and wet.

Sam rounds the bed. His neck aches from falling asleep at a funny angle in the car and is whole body's this buzz of pent-up energy that just turns into a roar in his ears at the way Dean watches him, looking up, up, up with this casual intensity in his eyes.

"I'm gonna screw you into the mattress," Sam says, towering over him.

Dean's face flickers, just for a moment, like when local stations take over commercial breaks but you see a split-second of a Clorox ad before it becomes a loud car dealership commercial.

"You'll break the freakin' bed, Sam," he says, all no-nonsense and reproachful, like Sam's still ten years old with the tendency to want to jump on furniture.

"Maybe," says Sam, and grabs at Dean's hair. It's short and silky and slides through his fingers as he fists it - not too tight, but Dean's eyes close like the weight of his hand is that heavy on him. In a room down the hall, there's an incredibly loud TV blaring, probably covering up the sounds of some guy screwing whoever he picked up off the street, and in that beat, Sam can practically feel Dean shifting gears. He pitches his voice low, so low that they can still hear the clamor from down the hall. "But you're gonna love it, aren't you?"

Dean doesn't say anything. Sam didn't really expect him to, not this soon anyway - not with Sam calling the shots like this and directing them so suddenly here.

"Yeah," says Sam, certain and husky. "You didn't know I've been thinking about this for hours, did you? You thought we'd be in Bakersville by dinnertime, maybe stop for a burger, find someplace to stay, get an early start at the library. But that's not gonna happen, Dean. Not tonight. This place is rent by the hour, and I'm gonna fuck you for as many of those as I want."

That gets Dean's eyebrows pulling, meeting in the middle of his forehead as Sam's words jerk his insides around.

The heel of Sam's palm slides down to the round muscle of Dean's shoulder and gives it a push, and the springs in the mattress all squeak as Dean collapses heavily back, knees hooked over the side still.

"Show me," Sam says firmly. "I wanna see what you've been wearin' all day."

It's still too fucking amazing to really comprehend, Dean doing this for him. All day it's been this agonizing little alarm in Sam's brain that's made him pay attention to every move Dean makes - every time he sits or stands, every step he takes like it's any other day and he's got nothing more on his mind than where they're going and what he wants for dinner.

Dean's face pinches with a fierce look of concentration as he hurriedly undoes the snap and fly of his jeans and shoves them down, like he's determined to prove to Sam that he didn't wuss out about it. Underneath he's wearing his usual boxer-briefs, too soft from wear and unfriendly launderings and more gray than black now, and Sam can see the tent his cock's making against the front of them.

Sam's already hard, too.

Lifting his hips and hitching his boxers down, Dean grimaces and purposefully doesn't make eye contact. Sam can barely suppress a smile, because Dean hitches his knees and tugs them open as best he can with his jeans this prohibitive twist of denim around his calves, but the urge to smile fades totally after that, because yeah. There underneath the flushed sac of Dean's balls is this black rectangle, all incongruous and strange there against his skin. It clearly doesn't belong, and the mere sight of it makes it hard to breathe.

"Oh, Dean," groans Sam hollowly, and leans in to press Dean's legs forcibly farther apart. Dean slumps back against the mattress, looking dizzy, and his legs are in such an undignified open V under Sam's hands that it's like porn. All the blood in Sam's body is this steady drum in his cock, aching there in his own jeans, and he's just barely keeping it together as he stares down at the base of that plug.

Dean sitting in the driver's seat, one hand on a knee and another casually guiding the wheel down the highway, tapping his tongue against his teeth and letting out rhythmic, percussion-like bursts of air along with Guns n' Roses.

Dean scrounging around in the ash tray-turned-change holder and then dropping exact change into the toll booth lady's hand, smarmy little grin in place.

Dean at the bar next door, leaning against the bar on one elbow and chatting up both the bartender and some brunette with a tramp stamp.

"All this time, you've been wearin' it," Sam breathes down at him, and Dean exhales, heavy and pained.

Abruptly, Sam leans back again, taking his weight off Dean's lewdly-spread legs and letting them slump down; as they do, Dean's hard-on just becomes even more obvious. They haven't even turned on a light, so the only light that's coming in is through this slit in the heavy curtains by the window, and it cuts right up Dean's body, right over the flushed length of his prick. It's already so hard, but Sam knows it'll get even harder yet.

"Get your jeans off. I'm gonna put my cock in you," says Sam nastily, the rush that goes through him when Dean just immediately kicks and complies enough to make his hands clumsy as they pull at his own belt. "I'm not even gonna finger you first," he continues, just as it it blooms in his mind, what he wants to do. "'Cause you're already open. That plug's just been keepin' you all ready for it."

" _Sam_ ," says Dean, in this twisted, punched-out breath, and he's still got underwear hanging off one ankle when Sam grabs him around the thighs and jerks him closer in one muscular haul, right to the side of the bed.

Now that his jeans and socks and boots are in this pile on the dirty carpet, Sam can really open up his legs, and Dean wheezes as if completely embarrassed as Sam does, hands huge and skinny on the backs of his thighs.

"God," Sam moans under his breath, another sludgy, hot rush going through him. Like this, he can see the plug disappearing into Dean's body, see the flushed ring of his asshole clinging around the shiny black plastic. It's glistening wet with all the lube Dean had to put on the thing.

A distant wail filters in from down the hall, and Dean hitches in a breath responsively.

"You gonna scream for me like that?" teases Sam, watching Dean's cock twitch and his eyes squeeze shut as he presses his head back against the mattress.

"Do it," he gets out through gritted teeth.

"Yeah?" asks Sam, jaw setting. He's so pleased that Dean's dropped all pretensions of Bakersville and reluctance that he doesn't even consider teasing any more. He leaves Dean's legs pressed back and open against the plaid of his button-up and shoves his own jeans down, followed by his briefs.

His cock's been threatening hardness off and on all day, every time it occurred to him that Dean was sitting three feet away wearing a plug in his ass, so it's just red and raging and bounces up against the zipper of his hoodie, which is this momentary little cold touch against the heat of it.

"You're so fuckin' good, wearin' this all day for me," Sam snarls as his fingers grip the base of the plug and gently pull at it, popping it out of Dean's hole with this audible wet snap. It leaves Dean gaping open, his insides pink and dark and shining wet. "God," repeats Sam tightly, chucking the plug onto the bed a couple of feet away to further stain the bedspread. "You're all wet."

"Y'like that?" Dean suddenly asks him, rasping and needling. "'S it nice an' wet for you, Sammy?"

"Dude," hisses Sam, head jerking back of its own accord, like Dean's just grabbed him by the spine. He's not stupid; he knows Dean loves this, getting pushed at and fucked like Sam's the boss or something, but it never fails to make him feel like he's a kid again when Dean says stuff like that. It makes him feel suddenly naked and helpless and like he's giving all this power to Dean like he did when he was younger - he wants to hear it so damn bad. He forcibly keeps his voice steady. "'S as wet as pussy. 'S gonna feel so good on my cock, man."

"Jesus," Dean utters, face flinching. A split second later there's this wet string of precome slipping down from the exposed head of his cock onto his black t-shirt; the sunlight cutting in through the open curtains catches on it and makes it shine.

Sam's cock aches like he's two seconds from coming as he grabs and wrings himself mercilessly, just looking at Dean getting his own t-shirt wet like that - at Dean's ass, glistening with lube and kept open from their fuck yesterday by the plug. But he only does that for a moment, then he's pitching himself over Dean and kneeing up onto the mattress and sliding himself into Dean's hole, sudden and smooth. It's just like he'd do to a girl, but Dean's sphincter's still threateningly tight as it slides along his cock and he seats himself in the vague, thick heat of his ass.

"Holy shit," Dean mutters, totally full of cock in two seconds flat and looking thunderstruck about it.

Now that he's actually on the bed and leaning over Dean like this, Sam goes dizzy from the overpowering smell of sex. Maybe the sheets were changed, maybe they weren't, but in any case, this fuck motel just reeks of it anyway - sweat and the bittersweet tang of jizz and perfume and condom wrappers - and now he can smell Dean, too, that leather jacket/car trip/gunpowder smell that's permanently ingrained in all his clothes; his shampoo; the lube they use. It hits him and makes his nostrils flare and this thrill crawl down his spine under his hoodie.

"See? You're all wet for it," Sam grits out, grinding his hips into Dean's ass, his pubes starting to feel a little wet with lube. The pull of Dean's muscles along his prick as it does that tight back-and-forth is unbelievably tight and good. Even with the plug keeping him open like fingers would, Dean's ass is still pretty tight. Sam drops to his elbows, trapping Dean's calves up around his biceps. "Gonna - fuck you - open. Open you up on my dick. Been waitin' all day for this --"

With that truth issuing out, suddenly highway driving and interviews and county coroner's reports all snap together from fuzzy-edged puzzle pieces into a clear picture, and Dean gasps, "Do it, Sammy, _do_ it."

And everything outside of what they're doing and the nasty little room where they're doing it falls away. It's awkward, Sam panting in Dean's face and humping him with his knees threatening to slip off the edge of the mattress, but it's so hot that Sam's pulse is racing, throbbing against his ear drums and setting the pace, and it's just them.

Sam stops before he can let himself get off in that tight little fuck, with Dean grabbing his hair, all curled up around him, the both of them still in their shirts. He slips out, every vein in his cock shining with lube, and gives Dean a slap on the thigh.

"Roll over."

Dean does, putting his face right into the grimy blanket and cursing at him for no apparent reason, and Sam's back in him an instant later, pressing them together from hip to sternum and pressing himself in heavy and deep.

The headboard starts clanking against the wall, and after a minute or two, Sam pushes up onto a knee and angles his hips mercilessly and Dean yelps into the mattress.

"'S right," Sam growls, wanting that reaction more than anything - wanting this to be good for Dean more than anything. "Zat good, Dean? You gonna come on that?"

"Sam, fuck," Dean bellows, the words muffled and caught by the mattress, and Sam can feel him tensing all around his cock, can feel his hips pumping shallowly as he comes all over the bedspread. Usually Sam would be embarrassed about something like this, thinking inevitably of the maids seeing it, but just then, he could not care less, 'cause that's what this bed is _for_. Just imagining the pearly smears against the blanket has him squeezing his eyes shut and coming mid-thrust, right in Dean's ass.

After a minute, Dean lifts his head cautiously and mumbles out into the sex-thick air, "Hey... bed held together."

Steeling his muscles, Sam pushes himself up, prick pulling reluctantly out of Dean's ass, sticky with his own jizz. Dean's hole holds open expectantly, red and wet and fucked, and Sam gropes for the plug, intent on keeping it that way.

"So far, so good," he says, and presses the plug back in, sinking it in with one smooth push and making Dean grunt against the blanket.

The woman down the hall's still screaming.


End file.
